


Feet, what do I need you for when I have wings to fly?

by karumenchan



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Andreil, Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Porn, M/M, Oral Sex, Smut, this is just me being trash once again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 19:09:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14219823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karumenchan/pseuds/karumenchan
Summary: Neil had always hated walls. They were hard to climb and made him lose time and the fall was always painful. Walls had always been obstacles. Then Andrew stormed into his life like a berserk dog and taught Neil that, sometimes, walls were something to lean on.





	Feet, what do I need you for when I have wings to fly?

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hello! This work was heavily inspired by Frida Kahlo's famouse quote "Pies, para que los quiero si tengo alas pa' volar" which I think is generally translated as "Feet, what do I need you for when I have wings to fly?"   
> Anyways, enjoy!

Neil woke up with a start, a scream dying in his throat as he clutched his legs, squeezing until it hurt and gasping for air. _I still got them, is alright, I still got them._ He could still feel his father’s axe tearing his skin and shattering the bones in his ankles, then his knees. _It was just a nightmare, I still got them._

For almost all of his life, Neil Josten had only had one valuable possession: his feet.

He had traveled the world, a refugee from his own personal war crossing countries and oceans until the borders blurred and the lands around him were just an immense expanse of potential shelters where language or cultures didn’t matter, as long as there was somewhere to hide. It was a cruel irony, really, how big he had once thought the world was, and how small it felt then, when he had to run away from his father.

He’d used his feet to jump, faint, run, _flee,_ his steps tripping and tumbling on invisible rocks on the road. At one point he had learned to ignore the searing pain of blisters popping and nails digging into the flesh of his toes; had learned to keep walking through the numbness in his legs and the ache hammering his knees.

Then his mother died, and he came to Palmetto and, for a utopic moment he had thought he could stop and let his feet rest for a little while. But even if the landscape had changed he was still running, only in polished floors instead of gravel roads.

Sometimes, Neil thought he was a masochist, or maybe he was plainly stupid, because the thing was that, with a stick on his hands and plexiglass walls caging him in, he _enjoyed_ running. Perhaps he had gone crazy, perhaps he had always been, but as long as he had his feet, Neil could go — could _run_ — anywhere. The thought was always present in his mind. Even after Andrew pressed a key in the palm of his hand and Matt hugged him so hard he thought he might shatter a rib and Allison ruffled his hair and hid the scars on his face, his feet tingled with the urge to move fast and far away.

In those moments, Andrew clasped a hard hand on the back of his neck and somehow Neil’s feet went suddenly quiet, as if pulled by an invisible thread rooting him to the floor. Neil hadn’t understood at the beginning, because since when was a hand able to stop two feet without making them trip and sending them stumbling hard against the floor? If he thought about it, though, it made all the sense in the world because Andrew Minyard was a goalie, and for all his indifferent demeanor, he was an unmovable wall when he put his head to it.

Neil had always hated walls. They were hard to climb and made him lose time and the fall was always painful. Walls had always been obstacles. Then Andrew stormed into his life like a berserk dog and taught Neil that, sometimes, walls were something to lean on.

Now, breathing still ragged and heart thrashing against his ribcage, he felt a soft familiar weight on his nape. Neil closed his eyes, forcing his legs to relax as Andrew’s other hand came to loosen the vice grip that Neil had on his legs.

It wasn’t rare for Neil to wake up screaming and bathed in cold sweats, the ghost of his father looming in the corners of his mind whenever he closed his eyes and the itch in his legs growing stronger and stronger, but Andrew was there now, and Neil leaned into his touch, relishing the strong pull that seemed to root his feet.

Andrew never asked, too familiar with psychosis and his own inner demons to know that nothing he could say would keep the monsters at bay. So he waited, until Neil’s pulse was back to his normal steady drumming and then leaned in to press a soft kiss against Neil’s collarbone, hand still clasped at the back of his neck. Neil buried his face in the crook of Andrew’s shoulder and lingered there, breathing in the familiar scent of smoke and cotton while Andrew traced slow circles over the marks that Neil had left in his own legs.

“Yes or no?” Andrew whispered.

“Yes,” Neil answered, loud and clear and steady.

Andrew pushed him backwards and finally let go of Neil’s neck, hooking a leg around his waist so he was straddling him. He leaned in and brushed his lips against Neil’s and Neil couldn’t feel his feet anymore, just Andrew’s tongue tracing his lower lip.

It sent his pulse careening again, a horse race inside his veins.

Andrew kissed him, deep and hard and soft and light all at the same time, and Neil sighed when their lips parted, and a gentle bite was placed on the juncture of his jaw. Neil closed his eyes, back arching as Andrew slowly made his way down, tracing the map of his scars with hot sweeps of his tongue and wet scraps of his teeth, and he didn’t see roads, or flowers or stars, just _feathers._ Feathers in his eyes and feathers in his navel and feathers growing from his back.

Andrew nipped his hipbone and stroked Neil’s swelling erection, the lightness of his fingers ripping low moans from Neil’s throat. His heart was a fluttering bird and how ironic that Andrew hates heights when his mouth was pushing Neil towards a steep cliff.

A moan caught in his throat when Andrew ran his tongue around the tip of his cock, slow and so _loving_ Neil couldn’t help but wonder how could anyone call Andrew a monster, when he was the closer thing to salvation Neil had ever been.

Andrew took him in, his head bobbing and his tongue doing impossibly wonderful thing as Neil clutched the sheets with a knuckle-white grip because he was making him dizzy and because he didn’t feel like running and because he wanted to stay stay _stay_ there forever. He felt his cock brush the back of Andrew’s throat and all he could manage was a raspy whimper before he was tumbling over the edge, falling and falling but never quite touching the ground.

Andrew swallowed around him and licked his way back to Neil’s lips and as he returned the kiss, turning them over to brush his hand against Andrew’s obvious erection, he thought that he wouldn’t mind giving up his feet, after all, when Andrew had given him a pair of strong wings.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey again! I hope you liked this!! Honestly, I'm so gone for these two. I don't really know how to feel about this, I like it but I am not completely satisfied with the result. I don't know what it is but yeah, something cringes.   
> Anyways, tell me what you think! As always, kudos and comments are super appreciated <3  
> Find me [@andrrewminyard](http://andrrewminyard.tumblr.com) (yehhh i changed my url!!!)


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